


Cormallen

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Squick, probably inaccurate medical stuff, slash-adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-14
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of Peregrin Took's recovery, after the battle before the Black Gates and his encounter with a troll.</p><p>Please read the warnings in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Day (25 March)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, I finished it. Ten years late, but this is now complete.

It was Gimli found him. He and Legolas and every other able-bodied fighter had turned their waning strength to carrying the wounded and dispatching those beyond help; the battleground cleared slowly, slowly, and a moment earlier Legolas had lifted Beregond of the City Guard from the field. Gimli had seen, out of the corner of his eye, the soldier stir in Legolas’s arms and point back, struggling to speak. Legolas stopped and turned, still holding the wounded man.

“Gimli,” called the Elf, and Gimli looked up from his grim work (an orc who had been breathing a moment before had now ceased). “This Man says Pippin was fighting beside him.”

Gimli’s bushy eyebrows rose and he nodded, once, and did not watch as Legolas carried Beregond away. He trotted to where Legolas had been working, a few yards away, and stared in horror at the pile of bodies that lay twisted in a heap. “Poor little fool,” Gimli murmured, his heart clenching in his breast. No hobbit, no matter how valiant, could yet live beneath this mass of fleshy rubble. In the center of the ugliness lay a Troll, dead now, its broad black back like a cracked plinth to the sky.

Body after body he overturned, but there was nothing, no sign of the small creature who had by turn engaged and enraged and piqued and teased the Dwarf through their long journey together from Rivendell to Rauros and beyond.

At last Gimli stood beside the dead Troll. He wondered if Pippin could have been carried away by some foul creature, or run in a different direction after Beregond had seen him; Gimli could no longer hold hope that Pippin would be found alive, but he must be found - he must. So courageous a soul must not be lost - his body, at least, should be honored.

A foot. That was all it was, one long foot, as long as a Man’s almost, thin toes and tough dirty sole and begrimed skin. Incongruous among the boots and armor all round, and there on top, soft curls of hair, matted down with filth now, dusty and gnarled.

A foot, a hobbit foot, and Gimli knew it.

“Aaaaargh!” He roared out his fury and his grief as he scrabbled for some purchase on the Troll’s body and heaved the massive carcass over and away, feeling his tendons knot and sinews strain and not caring, not caring for anything -

“No!” he sobbed, but yes, there it was: Peregrin’s body. Curled up like a child’s, almost unrecognizable for the black blood that had poured out upon it. Pippin's helmet was still on, one hand knotted fiercely upon his sword. He did not move.

Gimli knelt upon the blood-wet earth and tenderly gathered the small form into his arms. “Peregrin Took, it is time to wake up,” he choked, but there would be no waking, there could not be. Even as he cradled the hobbit in his arms, Gimli knew this little one could not live, could not have survived being fallen upon by that Troll, any more than he could have survived being fallen upon by a tree. Gimli stifled his tears and held his breath for a moment, bending low over Pippin’s face in a vain attempt to feel or hear a breath.

It was no good. Gimli sank back onto his heels, rocking the body in his arms, and his tears fell down on the small soldier’s helm.

He looked up at last when he felt Legolas’s hand upon his shoulder. “The Troll,” he said brokenly. “The Troll fell upon him as he slew it, and however shall we tell his kin?”

“Come, my friend,” said Legolas gently, and in his ageless face was written a thousand years of sorrow. “Let us bear him to where his body, at least, can be tended.”

Gimli stood, with Legolas' hand beneath his elbow to steady him. The burden was light, but the Dwarf stumbled as he rose, and Pippin's head jerked back, the pale, clean skin at his throat shocking in contrast to the dirt and gore that begrimed him everywhere else. The sword clattered to the earth, and Legolas bent, reaching for it.

The limp body convulsed suddenly in Gimli's clasp, and he hardly had the sense to clutch at Pippin so the hobbit did not slip from his grip.

"Turn him!" cried Legolas, his voice harsh for the first time since Gimli had known him, and suddenly the Elf's hands were not gentle at all - he wrenched Pippin around just in time, so that his vomit fell upon the dirt and did not choke him. Gimli made a sound of horror, that changed almost instantly to delight.

"He lives!" roared the son of Gloin, but Legolas was already flying, the sword left on the bloody earth.

“Bring him to our tent, and I shall fetch the King! Valiant spirit indeed!” He was gone, hair flying behind, and Gimli sprang after him, short legs almost blurred so quickly did he move.

~*~

Legolas found Aragorn in a hastily erected command pavilion. “Come at once, my friend,” he said in Sindarin. “We have found Pippin and he lives, but if ever you have healing hands, here is one who needs them.”

Aragorn sprang to his feet. “My lords, I am needed by the healers. I shall return when I can,” he said to the few who were assembled there, and leaving them to gape, he and Legolas sprinted from the meeting.

Aragorn pushed into the tent first, Legolas behind. They saw Pippin stretched upon a cot, and healers busy at work, cutting his clothes from him. “Stay,” said the King sharply, and they did. He came and took the scissors from the lead healer and began the work himself.

Gimli and Legolas stood against the wall of the tent; after a while Gimli absent-mindedly stripped his vomit-stained overshirt off and tossed it out the tent flap; he did not bother to fetch a new one, but watched in his iron shirt and hose.

Aragorn worked quickly, hands moving all over the battered body, quilts piled on to keep the hobbit warm once the clothing was gone. He removed Pippin's helm last of all, for the noseguard had been twisted by the Troll’s fall, and had to be pried gently away from where it had pressed cruelly into the Pippin's skin. His nose was broken. It was, perhaps, the least of his injuries.

Every scrap of clothing removed showed bruised and beaten flesh. His mail shirt, of hard black rings, seemed to have prevented any sword-thrust from reaching him, but Aragorn counted at least six cracked or broken ribs. The hobbit’s left shoulder was dislocated, and had been out of place long enough that it had swollen and would not be easily slid back into place. One kneecap lay grotesquely to the side; his collarbone was cracked, and there were small broken bones in one foot and his sword hand, as well as a broken wrist. Incredibly, there was only one cut that might need to be sewn, a long, shallow score down his arm, from the point of his shoulder to his forearm, curving around in a way that told any experienced soldier of a blow that had struck and then slid down and around. Aragorn moved Pippin's jaw back and forth delicately before deciding it was not broken - only, perhaps, cracked.

Throughout the long work, Pippin did not stir, and his breathing was so faint as to be undetectable. Aragorn paused often to ascertain that Pippin breathed at all, and listened with his ear at the lad’s mouth, straining and fearing to hear that whistling which would mean a rib had pierced the hobbit’s lungs. He could not hear any such thing, though, and thought perhaps the mail shirt had saved Pippin’s breathing, distributing the Troll’s weight so that no one rib punctured.

“Bring warm water, and many cloths,” he ordered shortly halfway through the undressing, and someone scurried to do his bidding.

When Pippin lay naked beneath the blankets, Aragorn turned to Legolas and Gimli. “I must force his shoulder back into the socket,” he said. “It will take brute strength, and no subtlety, and it has to be done now, before the swelling gets worse and the shoulder becomes unmovable. Better that he be unconscious for this."

He had Gimli clasp the hobbit's legs and waist tightly to keep him still (and restrain him should he awaken), and Legolas supported Pippin's upper body, sitting behind him. Aragorn lifted the hobbit's arm with effort and then, moving slowly, rotated it. Up and up and up it went, and at one point Aragorn could go no further, it seemed - his face was pale with the strain.

Pippin gave a deep shudder suddenly, and his body spasmed in their arms. "Hold him!" commanded the King, and Gimli and Legolas, who had been lulled by the hobbit's complete stillness, gripped him. Pippin's body twisted and Aragorn made one last desperate upward push. The shoulder slid into its socket with an audible grating sound and Pippin wrenched forward to vomit again upon the floor at Aragorn's feet, blood and bile in equal amounts. "This is good, this is good," Strider chanted quietly as Gimli looked away in horror - the stench was powerful in the enclosed space, and the sight of the small figure racked with retching filled his heart with pity. The spasm swiftly passed and Aragorn laid Pippin back in the bed, piling soft blankets over him again. Legolas calmly cleaned up the mess and fetched dirt from outside the tent to sprinkle over the wet ground.

"How was that good?" Gimli demanded at last, when all was quiet again.

Aragorn sat beside Pippin's bed again. "Listen," he said. "He is breathing more easily now. And he probably feels better, also. He must have swallowed a good deal of his own blood from that broken nose, and that is very sickening. He will rest easier now. He cleared his lungs a bit, too, I'd wager."

Gimli listened and now he could hear the hobbit's breath, steady and slow. And his face looked better, too - still white as parchment beneath the blood and bruises, but less drawn somehow.

Aragorn placed one hand on Pippin's head. "Where have you gone, little one?" he asked softly, his eyes closed. "Come back to us. The victory is won, but we need you here to celebrate it fully." He stayed that way for a long time, then sighed and stirred. He opened his eyes. "He has gone far, fleeing from his body's wreck." Lines of worry were graven on the King's face. "I can only hope he will return to us."

"He is stubborn," said Gimli. "He will hold on."

The healers came back with tubs of water, and Aragorn, with the Dwarf and the Elf, began to clean Pippin. Aragorn worked as they went, a stack of bandages and splints by his side dwindling as he bound the wounds and straightened the bent and broken bones. Pippin was shrouded in white when the King finished at last, swathed in bandages from his nose (Aragorn had straightened it by feel and then bound small splints on either side, so it would not move again) to broken toes, with small neat stitches on the arm between and his ribs bound in length after length of linen to keep them still. Aragorn slid the kneecap back into place (a procedure which made Gimli, hardened fighter though he was, turn pale beneath his beard) and secured it with yet more cloth. He also carefully washed Pippin's numerous cuts with hot water. When all was finished they lay Pippin back on clean sheets and covered him to the chin with soft blankets. "I will sit with him," said Aragorn, but Legolas frowned at him.

"You cannot, Estel," he said. "You have other duties."

A commotion at the tent flap drew their eyes, just as Aragorn opened his mouth to answer sharply. It was Gandalf. "Aragorn, you must come -" He stopped speaking as his eye fell upon the still form in the bed. The wizard stood motionless for a long moment, his mouth open in shock, every day of his long years in Middle Earth etched upon his face. "Pippin," he breathed. "He lives?"

"He does," said Aragorn, standing. "For how long, I do not know. But he lives. What news do you bear?"

Gandalf tore his eyes from Pippin. "I have brought Frodo and Samwise back, back from Orodruin, and they, too, are alive." Triumphant joy filled his face now, battling with his fear for the youngest hobbit, who lay so still. "They are hurt, and the Black Breath lies heavy upon them both, but Frodo most I deem, and I need you - they need you. Have you finished your work here?"

"I have, for now," Aragorn replied. He straightened his shoulders with an effort, drawing on deep reserves to meet this new need. "Legolas, Gimli -"

"We will watch," Legolas replied.

"Aye," rumbled the Dwarf. "Send for us at need."

Gandalf came suddenly to the cot and knelt beside it. "Peregrin Took," he whispered into the delicate ear. He brushed his hand across the hobbit's face, touching his nose lightly and running one gnarled finger down the bruised and cut cheek. "When you awake I shall tell you stories of all your grandmothers and grandfathers whom I loved, nearly as much as you. Wake soon, Pippin." He rose in a flurry of soot-smudged white robes and strode out of the tent, Aragorn on his heels. Gimli started when he saw the tears leaking into the wizard's beard, and felt his own heart wrung again. Pippin must recover. This small creature had wriggled his way into every soul of the Fellowship, and many others besides.

"There is a healer on duty just outside," Aragorn called, and was gone.

Gimli and Legolas settled, one on either side of the cot, and gazed at the unconscious figure for some time, neither speaking.

"We should send word to Merry," said Gimli suddenly.

"Of course we should," Legolas agreed. He reached beneath the camp table and found pen and ink. He addressed the letter and then looked at Gimli with stricken eyes. "What shall I write?"


	2. The Second Day (26 March)

Pippin hardly moved through the night, but his breathing grew steadily deeper and easier. Another cot was brought in (Gimli had thoughtfully placed Pippin's inert form on Legolas' bed, a fact the Elf was unlikely to let him forget), and Legolas sat on one side of Pippin, Gimli sleeping fitfully on the other side, in his own cot. Throughout the night they rose to check on the still, small figure, and to trickle water into his mouth and gently massage his throat until he swallowed, as a healer had shown them. The water was often flavored with bitter or pungent or sweet herbs - "Healing things," said the healer, who they never saw again, "to staunch any bleeding he may have on the inside, and also some mild pain relievers."

"Mild?" snorted Gimli.

"It is feared that more potent palliatives would stop his heart's functioning," the healer said reproachfully. "He is small, and we do not know what medicines work best upon these halflings, or what they use in their own land." Gimli subsided.

In the grey light of dawn Pippin stirred for the first time since his bout of illness the afternoon before. Legolas was by his side immediately, Gimli just behind. Pippin's eyes were open and staring blankly at the canvas above him. His arms moved feebly, and a barely audible keen came from his lips.

"Pippin, Pippin, dear heart," said Legolas. The keening intensified, then broke into gasping - deep, shuddering breaths that spoke of almost unbearable pain. Legolas met Gimli's gaze with concern of his own.

"Healer!" cried Gimli, turning toward the front of the tent. "Healer!"

He was pushed aside by a weathered woman, who took one look at Pippin and began fumbling in her pouch. "Hold him still for a moment," she commanded, and Legolas clasped the small form tight. The healer pried Pippin's mouth open (Gimli flinched, thinking of the cracked jaw) and placed something under his tongue. "Hold him just enough that he can't hurt himself with his thrashing," she told Legolas, and sat back on her heels to watch; Gimli noticed that she had one hand on her wrist. Counting her pulse? Measuring time? He did not know. But in a moment or three Pippin's body went limp again.

The woman pushed her fingers into his mouth once more and fished a small wad of crushed leaves from beneath his tongue. She rolled them in her fingers, looking around thoughtfully, and then carefully placed them into a mug of water that stood on a nearby table. "Don't let anyone touch that mug," she said.

Legolas carefully laid Pippin's inert form back onto the mattress, bringing the blankets up around him. "What did you give him?"

She reached one hand to Pippin, placing it on the pulse point beneath his jaw. "Poppy," she said shortly.

"Strong medicine," Legolas commented, and she nodded, looking at Pippin intently. She sighed after a moment and sat back onto her haunches, folding her legs beneath the dusty skirts, obviously settling in for a long watch.

"Yes, it is, my lord Elf." She glanced up at him. "And he will be needing more. But his heart seems strong, and we know he has a strong will, just by the fact that he lives still. So we will ease what we can, now that his breathing is easier and his wounds no longer bleed."

Legolas nodded after a moment, grey eyes meeting grey eyes. "Let me fetch you a chair," he said.

"I have one just outside," she replied. "Thank you."

The morning passed slowly. Gimli and Legolas tended to Pippin's bodily needs, directed tersely by the healer. At mid-morning Aragorn came to check on Pippin, nodding with respect at the healer as he knelt beside the cot; stroking back Pippin's matted curls, he lifted one eyelid to look at the bloodshot green eye beneath before letting the lashes close again. The King sighed and laid his hands over Pippin's breast and brow. "Come back when you can, my young falcon," he said softly, and bowed his head down till his brow laid upon Pippin's.

When he sat up his expression had lightened, though his face was white. "I think he is still with us," he said. "The pain keeps his mind far away." He looked at the healer. "Please continue the poppy, but we must get more water into him, and begin tapering off the poppy as soon as may be - after we have moved, I think. Once we are settled at the new camp, you must halve the dose; give him a dose of poppy, and then when the next dose would be administered, use willowbark tea in its stead, then the poppy again later, and so on." He frowned. "And let's get some feverfew into him as well, and -" he fumbled in his pockets for a handful of dried, pungent herbs - "this as well, steeped in a covered pot for 30 minutes or more, to prevent infection as best we can."

"Yes, my lord," said the healer. "What about his cuts? I had thought to bathe them in witch hazel."

"That would not go amiss," said Aragorn. "And a compress of the hazel might ease his knee and this shoulder -" he touched the one in question; yesterday's swelling was completely gone now that the shoulder was back in place, but bruises had blackened all down Pippin's back and side. "You must also be prepared - all of you -" he glanced at the Dwarf and the Elf - "to move him. We will travel to Cormallen on the morrow, away from this wretched place."

"My lord." The healer nodded, and Aragorn stood. He looked again at Gimli and Legolas. "How are you holding up?"

"We watch," said Legolas; Gimli shrugged and nodded.

"I am glad of it. Pippin will need those he loves beside him when he wakes. But in the meantime..." Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "Would you like to see Frodo and Sam? They are sleeping, but I know you have not forgotten they are here."

"We did not want to disturb you," said Legolas, "but we would be grateful to see them."

"We can take turns going," Gimli rumbled, glancing at Pippin.

Gandalf appeared in his usual unheralded manner, pushing back the tent flap and ducking in. "No need for that," he said without preamble. "I shall stay with Peregrin while you visit Frodo and Samwise."

"Thank you," said Legolas, and he and Gimli followed Aragorn from the tent.

Gandalf sat down by the cot, and the healer sat, too. "I'm terribly sorry -" Gandalf raised an eyebrow at her, clearly wanting her name.

"Ancalime," she said, and her lips quirked, acknowledging the irony: that the name of a revered and beauteous queen should sit on this worn, capable woman _was_ slightly ridiculous.

Gandalf gave her a small smile. "Ancalime. May I have a bit of time alone with this small soldier? I assure you, I will call should he stir."

"Of course, my lord Istar." She stood and bowed, and when she looked up at him again she flushed; somehow this wizard could see beneath the iron-grey hair and wind-worn skin to the maiden she had been: tall and black-haired and slim, with clear eyes the color of the sea. Ancalime had not been a ridiculous name then, before the cares of her chosen path and the years bowed her back and marked her face. When she smiled at Gandalf this time it was a real smile, and her carriage when she left would have graced the one she was named for.

Gandalf sat back and watched Pippin, lighting his pipe. "I think a bit of pipeweed would not go amiss, my young friend," he said. "I am sure you will enjoy the smell, and perhaps desire a pipe enough that you will come back." He sat in silence then for a while, smoking and thinking his thoughts: joyful for the most part, for none knew better than he the magnitude of the victory that had been won; but seeing Peregrin Took like this, quiet and motionless, bandaged, broken, and bruised... none knew better than Gandalf the price of that victory, also.

Pippin stirred and muttered something. Gandalf knelt by his side in an instant, dripping water into the small mouth. "Be still, be still little one," Gandalf murmured.

"Merry," Pippin said, anguish in the cracked voice. Ancalime poked her head into the tent, but Gandalf waved her away, and she withdrew.

"Merry is coming, my dear," said Gandalf softly. He stroked Pippin's hair gently.

"Merry..."

"He will be here as quickly as he can - I am sure he will meet us at Cormallen." Gandalf ran one thumb over Pippin's eyebrow. "Are you really awake, my child, or does your pain speak?" Pippin's mouth moved for a moment. "No, no, don't talk any more, save that strength," Gandalf said. "Though I do miss the sound of your chatter..." He sighed. "I never thought I could."

"How..." The word came like a breath. "How... bad..."

"Ah, you want to know how badly you are hurt," Gandalf said, and was rewarded by seeing one green eye open. Pippin looked upward for a blank moment, then seemed to focus, and swiveled his gaze around to Gandalf. The wizard smiled. "Quite badly enough, my dear hobbit. You will have any number of fabulous scars to wangle drinks with at _The Green Dragon_. Yes, you will have plenty of time at the inn." Gandalf's eyes gleamed, and he whispered: "We won, Peregrin Took. The Ring was destroyed, and Frodo and Sam brought back from the brink of the fire, and Aragorn shall be King."

Pippin closed his eye again, and tears leaked from beneath it, trickling down the battered cheek.

"Ah, Pippin," said Gandalf, wiping them gently away. "You needed to know. Now rest, and heal. You will frighten Merry into a faint in this condition - you must be better for him."

Gandalf stayed by Pippin for an hour, until Ancalime came in to give Pippin another dose of poppy. "Can you stay with him, my dear lady?"

She spooned the water into him. "Of course I can, he is my charge," she said shortly. Then she smiled at Gandalf. "Go on, my lord, I know you have many cares."

"Few so great as this one," he said, bending to touch Pippin's head again. "But it would not do to tell the great lords that." He smiled at her, and exited.


	3. Day Three

Looking back, Legolas and Gimli both agreed that the day of the move from the Morannon to Cormallen ranked among the worst of the entire War of the Ring. That last day in the Mines of Moria had been wretched, and the hopeless days locked within Helm's Deep had been bad; Gimli stated with conviction that the Paths of the Dead had left him a changed and shaken Dwarf, and of course the battle at the Morannon itself had not been precisely easy. But moving Pippin - it was a nightmare.

Ancalime the Healer dosed him strongly with poppy before dawn, and the hobbit fell into a snoring slumber. Legolas's Arod was paired with a Rohirrim remount (ridden by Ancalime, who proved to be a decent, if not enthusiastic, horsewoman), and a makeshift sling was hung between the two well-trained horses. Some time was spent ensuring that the horses would walk perfectly in time with one another, and then Pippin was gently lifted from his cot (by Legolas) and carried to the hammock. He was laid in it, never stirring, and the long march began.

Legolas and Gimli rode together, as had become their habit, and Ancalime sat erect on the mare Heyle, her grey eyes on the horizon or Pippin. They set out as the sun rose, the animals pacing smoothly ahead of the main body of soldiery. Other badly injured patients had been slung in the same way, but the number of well-trained horses that could be used so was limited, and so most of the wounded bumped along in wagons, as cushioned by blankets and bracken as could be managed.

What can be said? They rode all day, with Pippin swinging gently between the two horses. There was no possibility of speed, and some 40 leagues to traverse. Mostly the miles went by quietly. Twice Pippin woke up. Both times were awful.

Right around noon the hobbit stirred for the first time. Legolas and Ancalime halted their steeds and the healer was at her patient's side in an instant. Pippin's eyes were open, but did not appear to be focused. His feet thrashed feebly, kicking out of the sling, and as Ancalime thrust a wad of poppy and other herbs into his mouth, he bit her, his jaw clenched down hard upon her fingers, eyes staring past her. Gimli tumbled off Arod and prized Pippin's teeth apart; Ancalime had never cried out, but her face was pale and blood seeped from two half-moon bite marks on her hand. She made sure that the poppy was tucked firmly into Pippin's cheek (Gimli held the hobbit so that he could not bite her again) and then saw to her own injury.

As she did so the keening began. The poppy seemed to work - Pippin's limbs relaxed again, and his eyes rolled up and then closed. But he keened. After checking him, Ancalime shook her head at her two companions. "We must keep moving," she said. "There is no way to make him more comfortable until we reach Cormallen, and the sooner we get there the better. For him and for me - my supplies are battle-field substitutes, for the most part, and I would sell my soul for some better-quality poppy and a faster way to get it into him." Legolas nodded, and Ancalime helped Gimli back onto Arod's back (a sight that would have been extremely humorous if all of them had not been completely unnerved by the high, thin sound coming from Pippin's prone form). Ancalime made one last check on the hobbit, pulling a fold of his blanket down over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and remounted Heyle.

They went on. So did the keening.

It was not constant, either in pitch, intensity, or volume. It would stop from one moment to the next, just time for Pippin to draw in more breath, and then it returned. For a long time it was just the same: high-pitched, shrill, piercing. Then it went away for a few moments (just enough time that Gimli felt his shoulders relax from the high, tight position they had been in for an hour), only to return: lower in register, sobbing slightly, fading and then coming back. It sounded for all the world like some lost soul from an old tale, and even Legolas's back was rigid with the strain of bearing it. After two hours Ancalime called a halt and trickled some water into the unconscious hobbit's mouth; this succeeded in stopping the sound for a while, but when they remounted and rode on, Pippin began it again, his voice refreshed, apparently, by the moistening of his throat.

Around three of the clock, by Gimli's reckoning, it stopped.

None of them credited it at first. After an hour the sound had become so much a part of their hearing that they did not immediately notice the silence. Legolas did, first, and more from the fact that his scalp ceased to crawl than because his keen ears registered a change. He looked around suddenly, then across to Ancalime. "Has he...?" He hesitated to ask the question, but Ancalime read it in his face.

She looked sharply down at the sling, then pulled her horse smoothly to a halt as Legolas did the same. Sliding off the roan, she hurried round to check on her patient. "He is fine," she said, straightening, pushing grey hair off her forehead. "And while he is fine I intend to keep him that way." She rolled a little ball of poppy in her fingers and delicately tucked it into Pippin's mouth, pressing it gently down between his lip and gums. "It's a bit early, but it will not harm him at this point, and if that... noise... begins again..." She shuddered, and climbed back onto Heyle.

The sun was sinking into the west when Pippin woke the second time. "Merry," he said clearly, although his voice was rasping and thin.

Ancalime halted them again, and it was Legolas who came around this time, kneeling beside the litter and smoothing Pippin's hair from his brow. "Are you awake, little one?"

"Want... Merry." Pippin's eyes were open, their green startling now that the bruises around them had really come into spectacular bloom. He looked beseechingly at Legolas. "Need him."

"I know you do, my dear one." Legolas continued to stroke the matted hair as Pippin's eyes drooped closed again, ignoring Ancalime, who had dismounted and was stirring herbs into a cup of water behind him. "We are moving to Ithilien, to a new camp, and Merry will be there when you arrive. Do you understand? You'll see Merry soon." Legolas took the cup without looking at the healer and held it to Pippin's lips, dribbling the liquid slowly into the hobbit's mouth. Pippin made a face at the bitter taste, and Legolas smiled. "I know it tastes bad, my dear. But it will help with the pain, and make you better for Merry."

Pippin's eyes opened again, and he looked steadily at Legolas. "Please -"

"Don't talk, Pippin." The sun dipped behind the trees, and a cool breeze rippled across the land from the south.

"Must." Pippin licked his lips. "Please tell Merry I love him." He closed his eyes, the green vanishing. "I am afraid I will die before I get to."

Legolas bent his head, resting it against the edge of the litter - he did not want Pippin to see his face, should his eyes open again. He swallowed, and spoke. "You must not die, Pippin. Merry needs you, and so do Frodo and Sam. And so do we all." How many years had it been since the Elf had needed such control - control that would allow him to speak clearly and keep from Pippin the fear and sorrow he felt? "You will heal, Pippin. The Valar shall grant it."

"Sleepy." Pippin sighed, such a little sound, and Legolas looked up again. He traced his finger down Pippin's forehead, down the bandages over his proud Tookish nose, again and again, as his mother had done to him when he was a babe.

"Sleep, then. Eru guard you, and we, too."

The armies halted an hour later, but the wounded continued on, fresh horses carrying the litters and pulling the wagons. Legolas sang softly to himself as they rode through the starlit night, following two torches at the head of the train.

~*~

The field of Cormallen lay beside mighty Anduin; the sound of its waters was quiet here, a cool murmur all but overwhelmed by the encampment springing up rapidly on the grassy mead.

The grass was grey in the predawn light when at last the wounded arrived. Tents were set up and waiting, healers there to relieve those who had been riding for twenty-four hours. Ancalime slid from her saddle and stumbled, caught by Legolas, who then turned to help Gimli down. The Dwarf and Elf were reasonably spry, but the healer was stiff, exhausted, and irritable. She thanked Legolas, checked Pippin swiftly (still sleeping from his most recent dose of poppy) and limped away, looking for someone in charge, who could tell her where her patient was to lie.

Legolas looked around, hands on his waist. Gimli bent and twisted beside him, trying to get the feeling back in his legs and waist. "I wonder if Master Merry is here somewhere."

"My mind had turned to the same question." Legolas glanced at Pippin's bundled form, and he frowned. "But we cannot leave to look for him."

"_I_ can," Gimli said decisively. "You've no need for me here - that healer will be back soon, and you can help her get this hobbit comfortable while I look for the other one."

"But how will you find us again?" Legolas asked him.

"I think I can manage to find a tent which contains an Elf, a healer, and a hobbit," Gimli replied, amused, and stalked away, showing no sign of the weariness Legolas thought he must feel.

~*~

"Meriadoc. Wake up, Master Merry." Gimli crouched beside the cot and shook the place where he thought Merry's shoulder might be. He'd been assured by a hostler that the perian lay sleeping here, and the tousled curls peeping out, as well as the child-sized lump beneath the blankets, confirmed it.

"Wha..." Merry turned over, blinking clouded grey eyes at Gimli.

"It's Gimli, Merry. Wake up."

An instant later Gimli was tumbling onto his backside with a lapful of warm, trembling hobbit clutching him tightly. "Gimli! Oh..." Merry hugged him tightly, and Gimli grinned, a pleased flush invisible under his beard.

"I'm glad to see you, too, Merry," he rumbled, patting the narrow back tentatively. "But you must have known I was all right - you did get Legolas's note, didn't you? Aragorn said he put it in with the top-priority messages to the city."

Merry pulled away suddenly. "If you're here, does that mean Pippin is here, too?" He jumped to his feet, stumbling as he groped for his cloak. "Please, how is he? You must tell me, take me to him -"

"Merry." Gimli stood and grasped the hobbit firmly by one arm. He noticed with astonishment that Merry was almost as tall as he, put the thought aside for later consideration. "Sit down for a moment."

Merry's frantic haste transformed in an instant to anger. "Take me _to_ him, Gimli, I need to see him _now_. You said he was hurt, I need to know -"

"Merry, listen to me." It was Gimli's utter steadiness that did it. Only that could have stopped Merry short, made him sit, frozen, on the edge of his cot, while Gimli sat beside him. "Yes, he is hurt." Gimli took a deep breath. "We did not want to tell you just how badly, Meriadoc, not in a letter, but it is bad, indeed." Merry's face had gone pale, and he swayed a little. "Are you all right?"

"I will be. Tell me."

"All right." Gimli sighed. "At the battle, a troll fell on him. You remember - you remember the troll in Moria?" Merry's face blanched to a shade not far from that of parchment, and he nodded, just slightly. "It was about that big, my friend. Pippin - he slew it, but it fell on him with its death, and we did not find him for a long time."

"How long?"

"I - let me think. About nine hours, I think."

Merry gaped, then clenched his fists. "Why did it take so long? Who found him? Why wasn't he found sooner?" He stopped himself with an effort. "I am sorry."

"I found him." Gimli met Merry's eye, and the hobbit had the grace to blush with shame. "He was completely buried beneath the troll; only his foot was showing, and that's what saved him - for at least the moment. He is badly hurt, and although there is hope, there is also danger. You must -" Gimli stopped, swallowed. "You must be prepared for anything, Merry."

Merry put his face into trembling hands, then stood up. "Take me to him."

"Shall I tell you of his injuries?" Gimli dreaded Merry's first sight of the battered little body of his cousin.

"Gimli." Merry turned at the tent flap to look at him. "Take me to him _now_. I must - I need to be with him."

Gimli nodded and stood.

Finding Pippin's tent was quick work indeed; the Sun was rising, and her first orange rays shone upon an industrious hive of activity - it was no trouble to ask where the injured perian had been taken (though Merry looked reproachfully at Gimli, wondering why he didn't already know).

They saw Legolas from a small distance, sitting outside the tent with a guard. Merry broke into a run. "Meriadoc," Legolas said when he galloped breathlessly up. The Elf knelt to embrace him.

Merry suffered this, patting his back absently and peering past the Elf at the tent flap. "Hullo, Legolas. Is Pippin in there?"

Legolas stood up, smiling slightly at this less-than-enthusiastic greeting. "He is."

Merry glanced up at the Elf, one hand poised to pull open the canvas. "I'm sorry..." He hesitated, aware of his debt to Legolas but drawn almost violently to what awaited him within the tent.

"Go in," Legolas said gently. "Do not wake him."

~*~

The interior of the large tent was softly lit by the growing light; a flickering lantern hung from the roof-pole. Pippin's cot lay to one side; there was another cot, empty, across from it, and a table crowded with bottles and boxes and jars tucked against the third cloth wall; two straight wooden camp chairs were tucked beneath the table. Merry saw all this with one raking glance, then, fighting back the exhaustion of a nearly sleepless week, he allowed himself to look at Pippin.

_He is broken_, was Merry's first anguished thought. "Oh Pip," he moaned, a tiny sound he could not choke back. He knelt beside the cot and stared, terrified to touch his cousin. He stayed there, completely motionless, while the tears ran down his face and his knees began to ache terribly. At last he sighed and shifted.

_Alright_. Taking a deep breath, Merry considered his next actions. He stood and looked around; the cots were enormous, Man-sized. There was plenty of room. So Merry took his cloak off and tossed it onto the empty cot. He brushed off the bottoms of his feet as best he could (annoying how these folk never had washpans around when one needed them), and carefully lifted the blankets that lay over Pippin. He had to clench his eyes tightly shut at the sight of this new set of bruises, stitches, bandages, but then he opened his eyes and delicately, oh-so-gently climbed into the bed beside his cousin.

Pippin's body was warm and familiar, but strange, too, bulky with linen and strapped about with splints. Merry cautiously tucked his arms around the lax, quiescent form. He nuzzled his face into Pippin's hair, not caring that it was filthy, not caring that his cousin stank of fear and blood and anguish, that his curls were matted and tangled and dirty.

Somewhere under the strange smells and terror and heavy bandages was Pippin - apples and autumn and bird-thin bones and laughter. He was far away, but he would come back. Merry would make him. He tightened his hold a fraction and let out his breath on a long, shaky sigh.

Legolas and Gimli found them twined together when the Sun grew strong, fast asleep. Pippin had turned his head toward Merry's, so that his splinted nose lay along Merry's pale cheek; Merry's arm lay across Pippin in just such a way so as not to weigh upon any broken ribs.

The Elf and Dwarf did not speak, merely nodded to one another. Gimli lay down on the unoccupied cot, unceremoniously balling Merry's cloak up for a pillow; Legolas silently pulled out a camp chair and sat in it, stretching his long legs out comfortably.

Silence and sunlight filled the tent.


	4. Day Four

Merry woke to a small hand on his face. He could see red sunlight through his eyelids, and for a moment he lay perfectly still, warm and drowsy and content to let the thin, familiar fingers run over his cheek and nose. “Pippin,” he murmured, and memory came flooding back, and fear.

He opened his eyes. Pippin had hardly moved—how could he move at all?—but he had turned his head and his green eyes gazed solemnly into Merry’s. His lips moved just a little—Merry’s name.

“Hullo, my Pip,” Merry whispered, and his eyes filled with tears. “You look terrible,” he said with a strangled sound that was half-laugh, half sob.

“Don’ cry.” Pippin said. He patted Merry’s cheek.

“M’not,” Merry said, and sniffled loudly. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone. A _troll_, you daft Took?” He lifted his hand to take Pippin’s, gently, gently, as he did not want to hurt him. “A hundred Ent-draughts couldn’t put a hobbit at eye-level with a troll.”

Pippin smiled, a little, and winced at the stretching of his chapped, cracked lips. “I killed him, didn’ I?” Merry was vaguely aware that they weren’t alone in the tent, that someone stirred very quietly behind his back.

“You certainly did,” Merry said. “And you must get better soon, so you can tell me about it.”

The smile faded, drained from Pippin’s face, and his eyes closed. “Mer.”

“I’m here, Pippin.”

“I don’ know...” Pippin’s eyebrows furrowed over tightly shut eyes, a small twist of pain, and Merry bit his lip. “I don’ know if I will get better.”

“Hush, Pippin. You will. You must.”

“If I don’... you must tell Mama... tell her. I love her.”

Merry’s eyes filled with tears again, his nose prickled with the heat of them. “You will tell her, Pippin, not I.” But Pippin did not open his eyes.

“And I love you, Mer. And... the others. Tell them for me. All of them.” Pippin’s face thinned, grew drawn and hard. He began to shiver, and Merry’s heart contracted to a tiny, cold thing, terrified.

“Merry.” It was Strider’s voice, Strider’s hand that touched his hair softly. “Please move, Merry. Pippin needs more pain medicine now, it is past time for it.”

Only that could have stirred Merry; he carefully unwrapped himself from his cousin and slid out of the nest they’d made, shaking a little as the cool air hit his body, clad as he was in only his shirt and smalls. He saw Legolas sitting to one side and went blindly to him, feeling the Elf’s long arm wrap round his waist, so that Merry stood firm in his embrace. Gimli still slept in the other cot, and Aragorn and a strange woman bent over Pippin.

They conferred in low tones, small movements. Merry could not see exactly what they did, but the woman took things from the table beside him and Legolas, hardly sparing a glance for them (though Merry saw that her gaze was keen and calm, and thought she had probably seen more than she acknowledged), and she handed herbs and pastes to Aragorn. She spoke to him with deference, but not servility—almost as an equal.

A few minutes later Aragorn straightened and turned to Merry and Legolas. “Merry, let us speak together,” he said. Merry peered past him and saw that Pippin was asleep again, or unconscious, face relaxed.

“All right.” Merry pulled on his trousers and followed Strider out of the tent; they stood a little way away, in the dappled shade of a beech tree.

Aragorn crouched down beside him, putting their faces on a level. “I am glad you are here, Merry, you can do much to help Pippin recover.”

“So he will recover?” Merry’s voice was harsh—hope and fear at war in his throat.

Aragorn looked him in the eye. “I believe that he can. But he is in a lot of pain, and he—his mind fled, you know, from the pain. That’s how he lived so long without being found—he was unconscious. But now we must keep him here, I believe. If he thinks that the pain will grow too great, he may try to flee again, and he should not.” Aragorn sighed, and rubbed his head; Merry saw for the first time how tired he looked, and wondered when the Ranger had last slept. “Frodo and Sam are asleep, and I want them to stay asleep for a long time, days if not weeks,” he said. Merry felt his heart thaw just a little—he had almost forgotten, in his apprehension for Pippin, that his cousin and Samwise were also here, also safe. Aragorn was going on, and Merry schooled himself to attention: “But for Pippin it must be different. He cannot be allowed to sleep more than is usual. A lot,” he assured Merry. “But not too much. It will weaken him. If we can get him past the worst of the pain—another, say, three days, then most of that danger will be past.”

“What shall I do?” Merry asked.

“Be with him,” Aragorn replied simply. He put one hand on Merry’s shoulder. “As close as you can. Help Ancalime—his healer—with whatever you may, and do not let his hopes flag. You hobbits have a mighty spirit in you. Pippin’s is at the low ebb, but when it returns it will surge the higher for its lack today.”

Merry nodded firmly. Aragorn took his right hand and looked at it carefully. “And how is your injury, Esquire of Rohan?” he asked. “Flex your hand for me; now make a fist.” Merry obeyed. The hand was still weak, but he could dress himself now, and use it to support things; his grasp was awkward but improving. “When I have more time I will come and give you exercises to strengthen it,” Aragorn promised. “For now, I must hurry away—or be hurried away.” He smiled wryly and Merry followed his eyes to where several lords strode toward them.

Merry nodded. “Strider—thank you.” He hugged him tightly. “I am so glad you are safe and strong, and—thank you. For Pippin.”

Aragorn returned his embrace, then leaned back and looked Merry in the eye. “He is in many kinds of danger, Merry, and there are no certainties in the world. His injuries are great. But I have great hope for him, not least because he has you to help him so.”

“Thank you.” Another quick embrace and Aragorn was up and gone, long legs carrying him easily toward the deputation of Men. Merry turned and walked back to the tent.

Little had changed. Gimli still slept; Legolas sat where he had been. The healer sat in the other wooden chair, one hand on Pippin’s forehead. When Merry came in (he did not have to duck under the tent flap as the Men did), she met his eyes and nodded. Merry came to her and sat down on the edge of Pippin’s cot, near his feet to be out of the way.

His cousin breathed steadily and deeply. “How is he?”

Her voice was clear and low, a little rough, her accent the newly familiar one of Gondor. “As well as can be expected. I’ve given him poppy, the last he’ll have for some time, and he will stay asleep for some little while. I was about to try and clean him up, change his dressings; Lord Legolas thought you might care to help me.”

Merry felt a twinge of uneasiness. Should Pippin be let to sleep this much? But she had said he’d have no more poppy after this... And Aragorn had been right here when she dosed him. So he hid his nerves and nodded to her. “My name is Meriadoc, Meriadoc Brandybuck, at your service,” he stammered.

“Ancalime of Dor-en-Ernil,” she replied, bending her grey head courteously. “At yours and your family’s, Master... Brandybuck.”

Merry touched Pippin’s leg lightly, over the blanket. “You already have been, my lady. Please call me Merry.”

She set to work, then, lifting the coverlets off Pippin’s small body and surveying his hurts. “Let us begin here,” she said, indicating his right foot. She covered the rest of him, and Merry scooted down and around.

Legolas stayed silent as he watched, handing the healer bandages or herbs as she asked for them; but Ancalime spoke to Merry, asking him questions. “So you are kin to this one?” she said, gently rubbing a spicy-scented poultice into Pippin’s bruised foot, then re-wrapping his broken toes. She uncovered his leg and massaged the cream into all his bruises. His knee in particular was spectacular, an explosion of black and blue and angry red skin radiating up and down from it.  
“I am. We are cousins, and best friends. What is that?”

“It is arnica and marigold,” she replied. “You can help, if you will—his other leg is quite bruised too, although the foot is unharmed.”

Merry took a scoop of the stuff onto two fingers and pushed the blankets off Pippin’s left leg. His shins were bruised, and dark marks mottled his skin all the way up from there. Merry gingerly rubbed the stuff in, relaxing as he realized that Pippin was deeply asleep and would not flinch away. He carefully pushed Pip’s bedding aside, preserving his modesty, and rubbed the paste into the marks on his hips and thighs. Ancalime did the same on his right leg. “My lady...”

“Yes?” she looked up at him for a moment, hands still moving in small circles on Pippin’s hip.

“Was he...” Merry found himself blushing red. “Was he hurt...?” He tilted his head toward Pippin’s groin, not meeting her eyes.

“No, your cousin’s pelvis was protected very well by the armor, and by fortune,” Ancalime said calmly. She pulled Pippin’s nightshirt back down, patting his thigh very softly. Merry did the same, and they tucked the covers back over Pippin’s legs. “Now, Master—Merry.” She sought his eyes with her own. “I must do the same to his ribs. They look quite awful.” Merry nodded, eyes wide and frightened. “But I assure you, these are hurts which will heal quickly and easily—none of his ribs broke so far as to endanger his breathing, which is very good.” Her voice was firm. “It looks much worse than it actually feels,” she said. “Can you move up to his head? I will need you to lift him so that I can get the bandages unwound.”

So Merry was prepared, a little, but when she unbuttoned Pippin’s shirt and laid the cloth aside, he gasped a little. And when she unwrapped the bandages around his ribs (Merry cradled his cousin’s head and arms, lifting him as gently as possible so the bandages could be unwound), he felt hot tears burn his eyes again. “Pip,” he whimpered, and leaned over to touch his forehead to the crown of Pippin’s heavy, unconscious head. Anything to avoid seeing that battered, sunken chest, just for a moment.

Ancalime did not comment, beyond a terse, gentle instruction that Pippin could be laid down again. Merry complied, breathing deeply to still his tears. Tears were no use to Pippin at the moment.

“Can you...?” She was offering him the salve again, and Merry nodded and took it, blinking the moisture from his eyes. He rubbed the spicy ointment gently into each mottled mark, soothed by the scent of it, by the repetitive motion, by the steady up-and-down of Pippin’s ribcage beneath his hands. “Now up again,” Ancalime said, and he lifted Pippin.

The younger hobbit stirred slightly in his arms. Merry leaned over and said, “Sleep now, Pippin. It’s just your Merry.” Pippin’s face relaxed and the healer nodded approvingly as she efficiently wound the cingulum round and round until pristine white covered blue and red.

“Now his arms,” she said, and she tended to the one with the stitching; Merry rubbed the salve into “his” arm, and watched as she smoothed something that looked disturbingly like honey into the red skin around the black thread, trying not to wince away from the fact that his dearest friend’s skin had literally been sewn together.

“Will, ah, will the thread stay there?” he asked.

She glanced up at him and smiled. “No, in a week I shall snip it and pull it out. It won’t hurt him at all, and in the meanwhile it gives the skin a chance to knit safely.” She continued her work.

“And what are you putting onto the wound?”

“This is a honey compress, with several different herbs in it.” She finished the work and used a damp cloth to clean her fingers. “Acacia, goldenseal, echinacea. I’m sure you know that sometimes wounds seem to... go bad.”

“Aye, wound sickness, we call it.”

“As do we,” she said. “These herbs help to protect from it, we’ve found.” She smoothed the sheet over Pippin’s arm. “Just a few spots left, now...” Merry watched as she massaged the arnica gently over Pippin’s shoulders, then held his hand out for the jar. She handed it to him without demur, and he set to work, anointing Pippin’s face, studying the features as he went.

It was reassuring work, in one way. Despite the splints, Pippin’s nose was still his nose—long and straight and narrow, excellent for sniffing out tea or trouble. The line of his cousin’s jaw, too, was familiar—stubbornly set or lengthened in a laugh. His cheekbones, round and high and still the same beneath the bruising. That groove from nose to mouth—the filtrum, Merry remembered suddenly—was puffy and swollen, and Merry applied the salve there with particular delicacy, afraid to hurt Pippin. He needn’t have worried; the other hobbit twitched his nose a little (the scent, perhaps?) but subsided quickly enough.

It was also sad work, for Pippin looked older than his few years. There were lines of pain etched from outside his nostrils to the corners of his curlicue mouth; another furrowed his brow, and Merry rubbed salve there, despite the (amazing) lack of bruises; he gently pushed his finger down the furrow until Pippin sighed and it smoothed away. The line where Pippin’s helmet had cut into his skin was last, and Merry delicately anointed it, holding Pippin’s matted hair back and away until he had finished.

Ancalime had finished and was watching intently when Merry finally leaned over to press a kiss to Pippin’s cheek. “You love him,” she said, smiling as she reached to reclaim the jar of salve from Merry.

“He is my cousin,” Merry said. “I’ve known him since birth—we’ve never been apart more than a few weeks at a time—three months at the most, I think.”

“And how old is he?” Ancalime asked, before changing course abruptly. “Are you hungry? Perhaps m’Lord Legolas would tell the guard outside to fetch us a bite to eat.”

Legolas smiled and stood. “I shall do better than that, and fetch the food myself—surely any guard would underestimate the amount of food needed to sate a hobbit.”

Merry nodded. “I am hungry.” He glanced at Pippin, shifted so that he was sitting more comfortably with his back to the wall of the tent, legs neatly folded beside Pippin’s head. “What about Pippin?”

Legolas ducked out of the tent, and Ancalime settled into her chair. “He cannot eat yet—his jaw is cracked, and his stomach too sensitive; it would make him sick. I’ve been giving him nourishing broths, but he will lose weight for a few more days, until he can begin eating solid foods again.”

Merry nodded, eyes down. “What about bathing? His hair—” he tried to comb his fingers through it, gave up immediately. “He would hate to be so dirty, were he aware of it.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Ancalime said. She bent and rummaged through her wallet, straightening to hand Merry a wide-toothed, wooden comb. “You can brush his hair, if you’d like—that will get much of the filth out, and it shouldn’t hurt him. His head is very little bruised, luckily, and you are attentive to him.”

Merry smiled as he accepted the instrument. “Best to do it now,” he said. “Pippin hates to have his hair brushed when he’s awake.” He began his work, hunched over his cousin’s still form. “You asked me how old Pippin is, I believe?”

“Yes. Tell me about him—and yourself. He is the first halfling—hobbit—I’ve ever met.”

Merry worked carefully through Pippin’s hair, picking up one curl at a time and easing the teeth of the comb through it. “He is twenty-eight years old,” he said. “He will be twenty-nine in October.”

“So old?” Ancalime was obviously surprised.

“So young, you should say.” Merry smiled to himself, brushing dirt and dried blood off the linen before lifting the next tangle. “We don’t say that one has reached his majority until he reaches thirty-three years. Pippin is under-aged, and he acts it, most of the time.” He leaned to kiss the pale brow again. “Though not in recent weeks.”

“I should say not. And how old are you?” Ancalime leaned down again, pulled a small bag of knitting from her wallet.

“I am... oh.” Merry looked up, blinking. “I am thirty-seven. I hadn’t thought—” He smiled. “I forgot my birthday.”

“Well, happy belated birthday,” Ancalime smiled. “I’m sorry I’ve no gift for you.”

Merry grinned at this. “Among our people, the celebrant gives gifts, rather than receiving them.” He cocked his head, fingers still busily combing Pippin’s tangles. “My birthday fell... Hmm. It fell sometime around when Pippin left with Gandalf, just after Isengard. Or maybe a day later.” He looked back down at a particularly stubborn knot, eyes filling. “I’ve given him no gift this year.”

Ancalime’s needles clicked softly and her voice was kind. “Believe me, you have and you shall. You are already a great comfort to him.”

“That’s nothing,” Merry protested, still tugging gently at Pippin’s tangles. “That is because—because I must.”

“Thus are the greatest gifts given,” she replied. “And you may well give more in the next week or two than you have ever given before, or will again.”

“What do you mean?” Her words filled Merry with a faint foreboding.

She looked up finally, and smiled a little. “I mean nothing sinister or sorrowful, Master Merry. Just that, as he recovers, your cousin will suffer from more than physical pains. He may fret and complain, and pick fights with you, and be angry and sorrowful at his wounds, and try to do too much, too soon, and, in short, drive you to distraction. If you can keep your temper and kindness in the face of the tests he will likely set you, that will be a gift indeed.”

Merry smiled at that, a genuine smile. “I have managed to keep my temper for the most part for twenty-eight years,” he said. “Pippin is sweet-natured, none sweeter, but he has a talent for trouble, my lady. We will have to be on the alert together.”

She returned his smile. “If he is as kind-natured as you are, I’ve no doubt he will make it worthwhile.”

Merry’s ears turned pink and he looked back down, back to his careful task. He could not think of a reply, and so he kept his silence, only murmuring reassurances whenever Pippin stirred in his sleep.

*

Pippin woke up properly for the first time just as evening began to fall. Ancalime was asleep on the opposite cot, and Merry was seated on Pippin’s own cot, sitting tailor-fashion and smoking, trying very hard not to think about what Pippin’s mother, Eglantine, would have to say about her son’s perilous injuries.  
Pippin stirred and made a face, a small groan escaping his lips. 

“Pip,” Merry whispered, setting his pipe aside immediately, turning back to place a soothing hand on Pippin’s brow. 

“Where’m I?” Pippin murmured. He blinked slowly, eyes opening to the dim interior of the tent. “Merry?”

“I’m here,” Merry said. “You’re safe with me—we’re camped at Cormallen.”

Pippin met his eyes. “I feel terrible,” he said.

Merry heard Ancalime stirring behind him. “You look terrible,” he agreed. “Your healer is right here—I’m sure she can help how you feel.”

“I can,” she agreed, and Merry scrambled off the cot, circling it to hold Pippin’s uninjured hand as Ancalime bent down to Pippin. “I’m going to give you something that tastes nasty, but it will help with the pain. And then you may have some broth, to take away the taste.”

Pippin tried to nod, but it seemed to hurt him, and so he merely closed his eyes. He swallowed the willowbark tea without demur, although he did make a face, and then Merry sat beside him and spooned clear thin broth into his mouth. “What happened?” Pippin said at last as he turned his head away from the spoon after only a few sips. “I dreamed—I though Gandalf came and told me something good.” 

“We won, Pip,” Merry said. “And Frodo and Sam are safe—they’re sleeping now, so they can heal, or they’d be right here with me and you. The Ring was destroyed—the Shire is safe, we’re safe, all of us.” Pippin opened his eyes again, looking at Merry, a question in them. Merry nodded. “It’s all true,” he said to Pippin, and Pippin’s lips tried to curve into a smile as his eyes closed again. 

“That’s good,” he murmured. And a moment later, again: “I feel terrible.”

“I know,” Merry said, laying his head down beside Pippin’s. “It will get better.”

“Hope so,” Pippin sighed, and slid into sleep again.

Merry straightened, stood beside the bed and stroked Pippin’s hair back. “Should he be sleeping so much?” he asked Ancalime, Aragorn’s warning in his mind.

“For now, it’s fine,” Ancalime said. “Should he not wake every few hours, I would worry; but his wakings will be brief, and he will continue being confused for some time as well, I’m certain.” She tidied up the table, setting more willowbark tea to brew for later, covering the pot of broth. 

Merry fidgeted, tucking the bedclothes about his cousin. “Have you seen Legolas or Gimli?” he asked at last. 

“They have been arranging for their own tent, but planned to return with supper for you,” Ancalime said. “I need to go and check in with my lord,” she added. “Your cousin will be fine for the next two hours or so, and I will return before you retire for the night—I’ll sleep here.” She indicated the other cot. “Should you need me, send a runner to the encampment of Lord Imrahil.” She picked up her satchel and Merry saw for the first time how exhausted she was. “Would you like me to wait until your friends arrive?”

“No,” Merry said quickly. He bowed. “You have done so much for Peregrin—thank you. I hope you can eat and rest.”

She smiled and nodded her head in acknowledgment. “I hope that as well,” she said, and ducked out of the tent.

Merry busied himself with lighting the lantern—fetching a chair to reach the center of the tent’s ceiling and hang it, after—and then he climbed up to sit by Pippin again. 

Pippin’s face was drawn, still, too thin and so bruised… the bruises were fading, though, from dark blue and purple to green and yellow, mostly. Merry examined his cousin's face carefully, traced the unmarred lines of his eyebrows, down his bandaged nose. Drew his fingers along the line of Pippin’s jaw and around his ears, delicate and whole. “I wish I could bathe you properly,” Merry murmured, and then took Pippin’s uninjured hand and held it in his own, humming Bilbo’s bathing song quietly.

He’d only gotten to the third chorus—_oh, water hot is a noble thing!_—when the tent flap stirred and Gimli came in with Strider and Gandalf in tow. Gimli and Aragorn carried heaping trays of food, and Gandalf two bottles.

“He’s asleep,” Merry warned them low, softening it with a smile.

“He won’t mind us,” Strider said, also quiet, and he came to the cot, leaning down to hug Merry with one arm, eyes moving keenly over Pippin’s face. “I’m glad to see you, Merry. He looks good, I think, no doubt the better for your presence. Has he woken much?”

“A few times during the day, but only for a few moments at a time. And then just at dusk he woke for a little while—we gave him willowbark tea and chicken broth—and he seemed to be _here_, that time—you know?”

“I do,” Aragorn said, and smiled. “That is a good sign.” He offered Merry a hand and Merry climbed cautiously from the bed. “Go and eat, I’m going to examine him and see if any of the dressings need changing.”

Merry nodded obediently, crossing to the others and looking back over his shoulder at Pippin.

“Trust your Strider,” Gandalf said, and Merry turned to him properly at last. 

“Oh! I do,” Merry said. “I am so glad to see you!” He leaned into Gandalf’s capacious and familiar embrace for a moment. “I do trust him, of course. I only worry—well, you know. I worry,” Merry said, sighing a little.

“You’ll worry less with a full belly,” Gimli said, and it was true—Merry set to his supper with a will, sitting on the empty cot and swinging his legs as he ate, answering Gandalf and Gimli’s questions absently and keeping his eyes on Aragorn and Pippin. And Merry did feel better with bread and stew and a glass of wine in his stomach, so that when he heard Aragorn’s soft murmur and Pippin’s querulous lilt, he didn’t panic—quite.

He did, of course, break off his speech: “…and that was when—is he awake again?” Merry said, hopping from the cot, setting his bowl hastily aside and going to Pippin’s bed.

“He is,” Aragorn said. Gimli and Gandalf exchanged a look and stayed where they were, so as not to crowd the king and hobbits. “And asking for you, and wanting his dinner, I’ve no doubt.”

“Hoy, Pip, I’m right here,” Merry said. He ignored Aragorn, leaning to look into Pippin’s face. “How do you feel?”

“Like a troll fell on me,” Pippin said, and Merry laughed a little, turning his head so Pippin wouldn’t see the tears he wiped hastily away. 

“Could he eat, at all?” Merry asked Aragorn. 

“Have you some of the stew left?” Aragorn asked. “That would be well, although no large pieces. Pippin,” Aragorn said to him, “relax your jaw, I want to check something.” He placed his large fingers on the hobbit’s jaw and moved it gently from side to side, then up and down. “Did that hurt?”

“Not so I noticed over everything else,” Pippin said. 

“Hmm,” was the king’s only comment, and then Merry was back with his own bowl of stew. “Cooked carrots and small bits of potato are fine,” Aragorn said, “and as much broth as he will eat.”

Merry nodded and set to his task, speaking low to Pippin, teasing a little.

*

Aragorn slid out of the way, coming over to sit in one of the hard-backed chairs. 

“What do you think?” Gandalf asked. “Will he be able to be moved when the encampment leaves for Minas Tirith?”

Aragorn didn’t answer at once; he rubbed his beard and glanced at Pippin and Merry. “I think so,” he said. “I would not have said so two days ago, but there is some mystery here,” he concluded. “His bruises are fading quickly, and I could have sworn that his jaw was cracked when we found him, but it is whole and sound today.”

Gimli’s eyes widened, and Gandalf also looked puzzled. “It is a good mystery, however,” Gandalf said at last, and he reached out his pipe and pouch. “Have you time to sit and eat with us, high king?”

Aragorn shot him a look, at once rueful and humorous. “I don’t, but I mean to do so anyway,” he said. 

The three sat and ate, speaking quietly, and after some time Merry rejoined them, saying that Pippin slept again; Merry set to finishing his own interrupted supper. He also finished Gandalf’s stew, and what little Aragorn left, but Gimli aimed a gimlet eye at him when he said Merry eying the bread and honey on his plate. “Get your own,” Gimli growled, and Merry smirked and shrugged. 

“I’ve hardly been able to eat,” he said. “I’ve got to make up for lost time.”

“Would you like to come and see Frodo and Sam?” Gandalf asked. “Gimli at least will stay here with Pippin until we return, I’m sure. And you can get some bread and honey all your own from the mess tents, as well as something more for Pippin if he wakes in the night.”

Merry glanced at Pippin, obviously torn, and finally said, “Yes, that would be fine.” His face brightened. “I can tell him about Frodo and Sam, then, the next time he wakes,” he said. “Yes, let’s go.” He pulled on his cloak against the spring night and followed Gandalf from the tent. He stuck his head back in again, though, and said to Gimli and Aragorn: “Thank you—for everything, you know.” Then he was gone, and Aragorn set to finishing his supper with the dwarf and sleeping hobbit for company.

*

Gandalf led Merry through the encampment to an area set aside a little, within a beechwood; the size and grandeur of the accommodations here seemed to indicate something unusual, and the wizard glanced down at the hobbit, watching as his eyes flicked from one high-pitched roofline to the next, banners and flags snapping when the wind lifted them. 

“Fine lodgings, it seems,” Merry said. He pointed to a white tent, before which the sable flag, glimmering white tree foremost, waved in the breeze. “Is that Strider’s—well, Aragorn—Elessar—” Merry stopped, hands on his hips, and looked up at Gandalf’s face. “What _am_ I to call him, now?”

Gandalf smiled. “You and I may call him Strider, or Aragorn, or King Elessar, or Elfstone, I have no doubt. He will answer to all of these, and gladly, for the time is beginning when he will be glad to know those who are his true friends, who loved him before he earned his crown. But others will call him King Elessar, and you might—if you wished to show him particular honor in the company of strangers—call him the same.” He led Merry, then, to a small tent beside the great white tent of the king, guarded by two erect soldiers wearing the same garb as Pippin’s—Pippin’s now bloodstained and tattered where it had been cut off him, Gandalf knew, sent away to be cleaned and mended in hope of the future.

They came into the tent and there were Samwise and Frodo, asleep in the lamplight; the scent of athelas hung in the air; Merry took a deep breath, felt his shoulders unknot a little, his aches ache a bit less.

“Do not wake them,” Gandalf said. “They are in the care of the king, and he wishes to keep them asleep for another span of days—ten more, perhaps.”

“So long,” Merry murmured, and he went to stand over Frodo, looking down at his thin face. “Can I…?” Merry’s eyes turned to Gandalf anxiously, and Gandalf nodded. Merry reached for Frodo’s hand, seeing only then the bandages wrapped around it. “What happened?” he asked.

“He lost the finger,” Gandalf said quietly. “It is the worst of his physical hurts, however.”

Merry winced and nodded, moving instead to push Frodo’s dark curls from his forehead. His cousin looked peaceful, although somewhat battered and drawn. Merry leaned down and kissed Frodo’s cheek, then his forehead, before turning to Sam—Sam who also looked thin, though his face, too, was serene, lips closed and curved in a small, secret smile. Merry tucked a curl behind Sam’s ear, then kissed his forehead and turned back to Gandalf. “Thank you.” He seemed ready to go, but wavered and then sat down on a camp stool abruptly. “Just—” He pressed his hands to his face.

Gandalf came to his side and placed a warm hand upon his shoulder. “I know,” he said, and Merry nodded into his hands. 

He lowered them a moment later and wiped his sleeve across his face, sniffing mightily. “It’s all a lot to take in,” he said. Gandalf saw his face try to crumple again but the hobbit drew in a deep breath and kept his composure. 

Gandalf crouched down at his side. “Weeping can be a blessing,” he said. “Your tears carry away pain and worry, so long as you let them.”

Merry sniffed again and looked into Gandalf’s eyes; his own were still wet. “I’m so afraid,” he said.

“Of what?” Gandalf asked without judgment or expectation.

“If Pippin—if he doesn’t—” Merry seemed to choke on his words, but he forced himself to go on after a moment: “I’m so relieved that Frodo and dear Sam are well, or will be, but I’m so _angry_ because Pippin is—that he—how can he be so _broken_, and they so whole?” His voice broke, then, and his shoulders shook as he covered his face with his hands again.

Gandalf had no words for this pain; he could only press Merry’s shoulder and say, “I do not know, my dear Meriadoc. I do not know.”


	5. Day Five

(29 March)

Pippin woke twice in the night; once Ancalime gave him a small dose of poppy, and the second time, willowbark. Merry sat up beside him both times, murmured calming words as Pippin’s whole body seemed to clench up in pain, as he swallowed the doses. Once they were in him, Merry lay down and stroked his hair until he was asleep again; only then did Merry let himself sleep, too.

When Pippin woke at dawn, then, Merry awoke, too, somewhat cranky and still tired, but willing once more to set aside his own needs to tend to Pippin.  
“What do you need?” he asked, and Pippin made a face. 

“I need—I need a privy,” he said. “I feel like I can get up, and I don’t want to—to have anyone tend me.”

“Oh.” Merry considered. He’d helped care for Pippin since he’d been back, bodily needs along with everything else, but now Pippin was awake and much more alert, it seemed, and already blushing a little as he confessed his need. “Let me see what we can do,” he said, and clambered out of the cot.

Ancalime, wakened for consultation, came to look at Pippin. “How do you feel?” she asked, and he puffed out a breath. 

“Embarrassed, and—urgent,” he said.

She smiled back at him. “You are much more awake this morning, I see. Let me look at your foot and knee. Master Merry,” she said, turning to him, “fetch the chamber pot from under my cot. It’s empty,” she added, and without waiting for his reply, pushed the covers off Pippin.

Merry picked the pot up and brought it to Pippin’s side of the tent, then watched as Ancalime gently unwrapped Pippin’s knee. His shins and feet looked much better today, the bruises fading quickly. “How odd,” Ancalime murmured, as if to herself, and Merry watched as she cupped her hands around Pippin’s knee, pressing carefully this way and that. Pippin’s face was tight. “Does this hurt?” Ancalime asked him, seeing how his eyes were squinched closed.

“Nae, it tickles a bit,” Pippin said. “I’m trying not to laugh. Or kick,” he said, opening his eyes. 

“Hmm,” she said, and moved down to his foot. She unwrapped the bandage around it, and ran her fingers firmly along the top, feeling for something. “Well, let’s get you up, then,” she said briskly, a moment later, “but no weight on this foot, Master Peregrin.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, “I haven’t introduced myself!” But he was already trying to push himself upright, and Merry darted around the bed to help him from the other side, so he wouldn’t put too much pressure on the shoulder, arm, and hand which were injured.

“Your friends have done the duty for you, and I am Ancalime of Dor-en-Ernil, your healer. And now—Merry, he is up, come to this side and—”

Between the two of them they succeeded in helping Pippin sit and then slide gently from the cot, wobbling on one foot with Merry holding him up, a hand around his waist.

“Oh please,” Pippin managed, though he sounded out of breath and his face was quite pale, “could only Merry help me?”

Ancalime straightened and lifted her hands. “Indeed, I think he may,” she said, “I’ll be just outside.” She shot Merry a look so speaking that he nodded, and she whisked away out the door of the tent.

“Just—” Pippin said, hopping the few inches to the object, and as soon as he was settled on the chamber-pot he glared at Merry. “Get out, please, Merry.” 

Merry glared right back. “I will not, what if you fall?”

Pippin made a frustrated noise. “Just give me a moment, please, I’ll call when I’m finished.” 

“Pip, this is the longest you’ve been awake in a week, practically!”

“I don’t care, I want privacy, get out, get out!” There was a note of pleading in his voice which Merry couldn’t gainsay; he sighed heavily and gave in.

“I’m going to stand right outside the door,” Merry said, and ducked out, chewing his lip anxiously. 

And there was Ancalime, raising an eyebrow at him. “Is this a good idea?” she said, and Merry threw his hands up. 

“I don’t know, I’m no healer!” He rubbed his face tiredly. “But even if he falls, it’s inches to the floor.” Merry glanced back at the tent-flap, worried about the silence. “He’s so much more alert this morning,” he said.

“He is,” Ancalime said. “Amazingly so, in fact. I wonder—”

“Merry!” said Pippin from within, and he didn’t sound alarmed, only—only himself. 

“I’ll call for you in a moment,” Merry said, and ducked back in.

Pippin had used the side of his cot to pull himself up again, and he stood on one foot, hesitant, clad only in his nightshirt. “I got this far, but I don’t think I can get back up into bed.”

“No indeed,” Merry said, matter-of-factly closing the lid of the chamber pot. “Ancalime,” he called, and he appeared like magic. She was strong and tall, and had no trouble lifting Pippin into his bed. 

“Thank you,” both hobbits said with relief, and she smiled at them. 

“Master Peregrin, would you like some breakfast?”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Pippin said. “And—oh, what I wouldn’t give for a bathe,” he added, wrinkling his nose. “I smell terrible. How have you survived me?” he asked Merry.

“It has been a sore trial,” Merry said, and pushed him back to lie upon his pillows, tucking a curl behind one ear.

“Master Merry, why don’t you go and fetch some breakfast for all of us,” Ancalime said briskly. “I am going to examine your cousin from top to toe, and perhaps we can see about a bath later today.” 

Merry nodded, looking closely at Pippin. Although he was smiling still, a little, his face was pinched, the freckles standing out against his pale skin. “I’ll get porridge, just the way you like it,” he said. He heard Ancalime’s voice as he left:

“Once you’ve eaten, I can give you another dose to ease the pain,” she said, and Pippin murmured something in reply; Merry was off, though, trotting through the stirring camp to the kitchen tents with a much-lightened heart.

*

“I’ve seen naught like it before, my lord,” Ancalime said to Aragorn, when he came to check on Pippin at mid-morning. “The bruising is already fading, his knee isn’t swollen in the least, and his ribs feel almost knit—only the third and fourth on the left still feel cracked, even.”

Aragorn rubbed his beard thoughtfully. He gazed down at the two sleeping hobbits, Merry curled carefully around Pippin, a light blanket drawn over them both. “And you say he was fully awake this morning?”

“Indeed,” she said, “he might be awake yet except that visiting the chamber pot and sitting up for breakfast tired him so that he began aching again. I gave him a very small dose of poppy—the last thing he’d had was willowbark, some hours ago in the night—and he fell asleep first, followed by Merry soon after.” She tilted her head. “Are they such a quick-healing folk?” she asked.

“Not this quick,” Aragorn said. “Tough as tree roots, yes, but not so prodigiously gifted with swift recovery as this.” He observed them for a moment more, then shook his head. “You say Pippin wanted a bath?”

“Yes, and Merry, too,” she said. “I wanted to check with you before I approved it, however.”

“I will come back after luncheon and have some of my men bring a tub, so that he can bathe here. I’ll check his dressings, first, and re-bind, after—you should take some time for yourself, to rest and check on your kinsman,” he added. “When I have to go, I will ensure that Legolas or Gimli is here, and I’ll leave clear instructions on what needs to be done.”

“That would be a blessing,” Ancalime said, and sighed in her turn. “I am quite worn.”

“You have done much,” Aragorn said, bowing his head to her. “We owe you our gratitude.”

She flushed but accepted the praise, and was relieved rather than otherwise when the king finally left. She sat back in her own cot and began knitting again, keeping watch over her sleeping charge.

*

Merry woke to the sound of voices; there were Men in the tent, shifting items around and setting up an enormous copper tub. Ancalime directed them with her calm voice, and Merry watched as they brought kettle after kettle of steaming water to fill it. “Wake up, Pip,” he said into his cousin’s ear, “it looks like it’s bath-time.”

“Hm?” Pippin mumbled. He opened his eyes; blinking up at Merry. “Oh, thank the Valar,” he said, turning his head and seeing the steaming water. And then: “Oh no. Merry, do you think the healer will stay while I bathe?” he whispered urgently.

Merry lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “Perhaps not? Or maybe it’s like—like having your mum come in while you’re bathing?”

“I don’t want that, either,” Pippin asserted pugnaciously. He shifted, and Merry sat up and helped him do the same. Ancalime came to them, seeing them sitting up, tousled and alert.

“Good afternoon, Master Pippin,” she said. “King Elessar will be here in a moment to help you undress, check your injuries, and then he and Merry will help you bathe, if you need help. There’s more hot water for a second soak, if you need it,” she said, “or if you would care to bathe as well, Master Merry.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Pippin fervently, Merry echoing him faintly. “That sounds fine.”

“How do you feel?” she asked Pippin. She placed a hand on his forehead. 

“I feel—” Pippin stopped to think about it. “I feel a bit better,” he said. “Everything still hurts, but, but, not so much. Perhaps just because I’m so happy that I’ll get to be clean,” he added.

“We’re all happy,” Merry said drily, and climbed out of the cot. “Is Strider here already?”

“He is,” said the High King, entering the tent. The Men setting up the tub bowed and left as Strider stepped aside. “Go and take your ease,” he said to Ancalime, who curtseyed and smiled back at the hobbits before exiting. 

And then it was just Merry and Pippin and Strider, and it seemed easier, suddenly, Merry thought—everything seemed easier.

“Alright, Pippin,” Strider said, “let’s have a look at you. No,” he added, when Pippin began to move, “stay right there in bed. But Merry, if you’d jump down, that would be helpful.”

Strider pulled the cover off the bed and, starting at Pippin’s toes, unwrapped and inspected every part of him. He pressed gently about Pippin’s foot and knee, asking again and again, “How does this feel? And this?” And Pippin answered, “Ouch!” or “Tender” or “Awful” or “Alright,” whatever the case might have been. Merry stood by anxiously, clasping his hands together and watching, wincing with every wince Pippin made, until Aragorn finally looked at him—right as he got to Pippin’s bruised ribs—and said, “Merry, if you don’t stop fidgeting, I’ll toss you into the bath water right now.”

“I’m sorry,” Merry said, “it’s just—”

“I know,” Strider said. “But Pippin and I are fine—aren’t we?” And Pippin nodded. “Get undressed and have your bathe first, in fact,” Aragorn added, and Merry nodded and went to rummage for clean clothes for himself, and a clean shift for Pippin, for after his bath, and for soap, and a comb, since Ancalime had taken hers.

The water felt like heaven: hot and fragrant with herbs, and Merry sat with his eyes closed for a moment, feeling muscles unknot and unclench for the first time in days. The tub was enormous—he wondered how many kettles it had taken to fill it—and he slid down on his back for an instant, stretched almost full-length to get thoroughly wet and clean. He washed his body and hair quickly, ducking his head under the water to rinse it. He had just finished and was wringing his curls out when Aragorn gently lowered Pippin into the water in front of him, no bandages anywhere on him, even the small splint that had been on his nose gone, and his nose looked almost itself again.

“There,” Strider said, handing Merry a wash-cloth and cup, “keep his arm out of the water except when you’re washing it, and otherwise help him get clean however you may.” Aragorn settled into a camp chair and lit his pipe.

Merry’s heart gave a painful thump as he saw Pippin’s naked body settle into the water—too thin, mottled with bruises, the stitches making a tidy line down his arm—but he swallowed his woe and said, “Let’s start with your hair, my dear. Be still, now.”

Pippin sat obediently motionless, turned away from Merry, and tipped his head back as Merry used the cup to pour water over his head. Then soap, and then it took a long time to rinse, because Merry insisted on tugging the comb through, to dislodge every bit of dirt. Pippin squirmed and complained, but finally Merry was done. The water was cloudy with soap and dirt, though, and he asked Strider for help again, in changing the water.

The hobbits got out—Merry stepping out, Pippin lifted to the bed—and stayed where they were, shivering a little, wrapped in blankets, as the tub was lugged out, emptied, and then refilled. Then Aragorn lowered Pippin back into the copper—deliciously hot, again—and Merry climbed in, too.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Aragorn said, and left them alone.

Merry picked up Pippin’s uninjured hand and ran the washcloth over it. “What did he say after he’d un-bandaged you?” he asked.

Pippin sat still, the stitched arm lying along the rim of the tub, out of the water. “He said I’m a prodigy, and I’m healing much faster than I should,” he said. “But never mind that, now. Come here, Merry mine.” He pulled at Merry’s shoulder with his good hand.

Merry dropped the washcloth as if it had burnt him and scooted forward to wrap carefully around his cousin, pressing his cheek against Pippin’s, legs bumping under the surface, water sloshing gently about their shoulders. “Pip,” he said, and felt his nose and eyes prickle with tears.

“It’s the first time we’ve been alone,” Pippin said into Merry’s neck. Merry felt Pippin’s nose tucked under his ear, just where it had gone for so many embraces for the past twenty-eight—nearly twenty-nine—years. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Merry asked, sniffling, unwilling to lift his head.

“Worrying you so,” Pippin said. “Going off without you. Nearly—” and it was Pippin who lifted his head, looked intently into Merry’s eyes— “nearly going much too far, without you.”

Merry met his gaze. “You should be sorry, Peregrin Took,” he said, and Pippin lifted his fingers to wipe the tears off Merry’s face. “Don’t ever leave me behind like that again, if you please.”

“I won’t,” Pippin promised solemnly, then he kissed Merry lightly. “Now help me clean the rest of me before the water goes cold.”

Aragorn came back and found Merry singing the bathing song to Pippin softly, running the washcloth over his back as Pippin slumped comfortably in the warm water. Strider didn’t say anything, just smiled and then quickly stripped the linens from Pippin’s cot, replacing them efficiently before turning back to the hobbits.

“I think we’ve worn him out,” Merry said; Pippin shook his head stubbornly, but didn’t protest when Aragorn and Merry helped him stand on one foot and patted him dry; then Aragorn scooped the younger hobbit up and set him bed, dropped a clean night shirt over his head, and pushed him gently back onto his pillows. Merry hastily dried and dressed himself, then brought Pippin’s next draught to Strider.

“Swallow this,” the king said, “and no complaints about the taste.”

Pippin stuck out his tongue but did as he was told, grimacing and then laying his head back on the pillow. His curls were drying, sticking out in every direction, and his face, although pale, was peaceful. “I’m going to tell everyone the High King tucked me into bed,” he said.

“I don’t doubt that you will,” Strider agreed, laughing a little. “Now I’m going to send Merry for some dinner, and I’m going to sit and smoke a pipe, and I want you to take a nap.” Pippin made another face, but his eyelids were already heavy, and as Merry and Aragorn watched, his eyes closed and his breathing evened out.

“Come outside with me for a moment,” Aragorn murmured, and Merry followed him out, glancing back to make sure Pippin didn’t open his eyes again.

The afternoon light lay golden across the encampment; the tents were beginning to thin as some groups began their journeys home, or to Osgiliath, Minas Tirith, or other cities in need of assistance and rebuilding. Many thousands remained, though, and the sounds of men’s voices and those of horses lay light over the deep murmur of the Anduin just beyond the camp. The tents were laid out in neat rows, like a little city themselves, and soldiers strode from one place to another, calling out to their friends, or sat at ease mending gear and tack. 

Aragorn crouched easily and looked into Merry’s face. “Tell me about the Ent-draught, Merry,” he said.

“The—oh, the drink Treebeard gave us?” Merry was puzzled. “Well, it was in Fangorn, you know. Treebeard found us and took us in, and when we got to his hall—really a clearing in the forest, but very nice, a bit like an Elven hall—there was a spring. And he said he didn’t have food for halflings, but he had the Ent-draught. So, we took it. And it was quite good, you know—like eating really delicious food, or drinking the best wine you’ve ever had.” Merry cocked his head.

“Do you know you’ve grown taller?” Aragorn asked.

“I’ve what?” Merry said. He looked down at his feet, then back at Aragorn’s face. “My trousers do seem a little shorter,” he said.

Strider laughed—something he seemed to do more easily now—and said, “Let me see your calves, where the orc whips touched you.” Merry turned about and pulled the legs of his trousers up—they did seem a bit too small, it was quite strange—and felt the king’s hand run firmly down one calf, then the other. “Thank you, Merry,” he said, and Merry turned back around. 

“Why’d you do that? And why did you ask about the Ent-draught?” Merry narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Unless you think—do you think it’s helping Pippin to heal quicker?”

Aragorn sat back on his heels. “I do. Or else something entirely different is at work,” he said. “But that’s the only thing that sets you and Pip apart from the rest of us, and we all seem to be healing from our injuries as we usually do.”

“I’ll be blessed,” Merry said wonderingly. He looked sharply at Aragorn. “Do you believe Pippin is out of danger, then?”

Aragorn sighed. “I don’t know, yet. He’s doing much better than I would have expected—much. But it has been only five days since he was wounded, and I will not make you promises, my friend.” He placed a hand on Merry’s shoulder and squeezed. “I will promise you, though, that he’ll be cared for in every way possible.”

Merry nodded. “We shall take it a day at a time, then.”

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed. He straightened. “Now, go and fetch supper for you and for Pippin—soft things, nothing too tough, and no ale or wine yet—and I shall dress his wounds again, little though he’ll thank me for it.”

*

Pippin slept through most of the afternoon, worn out by the exertions of the day. He woke at dusk to eat the chicken soup Merry brought him, as well as a sweet oatcake drizzled with honey. 

“You already need another bath,” Merry scolded, picking up his hand and gently cleaning the honey from his fingers with a damp cloth. 

“Leave off, Merry.” Pippin pulled his hand back and turned his head away on the pillow. “Must you mother me to death?”

Merry swallowed his first hasty reply, only setting the cloth aside and sitting cross-legged on the chair by the cot. “Yes, I must,” was all he said, though, and then he fussed over his pockets until he found his pipe and pouch. 

Pippin turned his face back to Merry; he looked pinched again, but his voice was small: “I’m sorry. I’m feeling rather wretched again,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice. 

Merry set down his things again, leaned to kiss his cheek and hopped from the chair. “Ancalime,” he called out the tent-flap, “is it time for Pippin’s next dose?”

The tall healer ducked in and came to check on Pippin. “Feeling achy, my lord?” she asked, and Pippin tried to smile, but it was rather thin. 

“A bit,” was all he said. She laid her hand across his forehead and then cheek, then gently turned his stitched arm and examined it, bending close and shifting so the lamplight fell clear on his arm. 

“Does this hurt?” she asked, and pressed very carefully at the lowest end of the sewn-up wound.

“Aye,” Pippin said, sucking in his breath. 

“Well,” she said, “it looks as though your stitches came a bit loose down here near your hand, and there may be a little wound sickness trying to start in the cut. Perfectly normal, but you may have a fever until we get it all healthy again.” She turned to the table of jars and potions and mixed up something, holding it to his lips and apologizing for the bad taste.

“I would assume it wouldn’t work if it tasted fine,” Pippin said, smacking his lips in distaste after he swallowed. 

“Just so,” she said. “That should bring down your fever and take away much of the ache. And now I think we’ve let this arm breathe enough, so I’m going to pack this bit, where the stitches have loosened, with echinacea and fever few. Then I’m going to dress it with honey and wrap the arm up again.”

“I just finished wiping honey off his fingers,” Merry said lightly, climbing up to sit on the other side of Pippin, out of the light but ready to distract his cousin if need be.

Ancalime set several jars close to hand, as well as a clean bandage. “This first part is going to hurt, I’m afraid,” she said. “Merry, can you hold his hand down and still?”

“Oi, you’re supposed to say, ‘this won’t hurt a bit,’” Pippin protested, but when Merry leaned across him to hold his hand still on the blankets, Pippin turned his face and pressed it into Merry’s shoulder.

“That’s good,” Merry said, and then felt Pippin’s quick breath as the healer pressed a damp mess of herbs and honey into the red, puffy end of the wound and swiftly bound a cloth tightly around his wrist. 

“That was the worst of it,” Ancalime said quietly, and Pippin nodded against Merry’s side, but didn’t lift his head. She smoothed honey and echinacea along the line of the stitches, gentle but firm, and then Merry held Pippin’s arm up as she wrapped the limb carefully in clean linen, tying it neatly at his shoulder. “There, I’m done tormenting you for now,” she said, and touched his curls gently when he sat up. “I’ve known many taller soldiers who bore such ministrations less bravely.”

“I’m only doing it in hope of more oatcakes,” Pippin said, struggling to smile, but his eyes were too bright and Merry ached for him. 

“Do you remember how my mother had to bribe you with blackcurrant jam to take your medicine when you had the ’flu at Brandy Hall that time?” Merry asked, lying down and pulling the blankets up to cover them both.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Pippin said, greatly on his dignity. “But I do remember how you spat out your dose when you had the chicken pox.”

“Oi, that’s different,” Merry protested, “that stuff was vile.”

Ancalime smiled at them both. “I’m off to get my own supper,” she said. “You may have visitors this evening—but Merry, don’t let them stay too long. You need your rest, Peregrin.”

His protest was interrupted by a yawn, and she chuckled as she left them.

Gandalf came first, but he saw at once that Pippin was still fragile, and so he sat down and began telling tales about Bullroarer Took and the White Winter. Legolas and Gimli came in soon after, just as Gandalf said, “it was so cold that winter, in fact, that anyone who spoke outdoors during the night, why, their words simply froze and fell to the ground, and so one had to wait until the sun came up and the words thawed to hear what had been said the night before. Why, hello, my dear Dwarf, my dear Elf. Come in and let me finish my tale.” 

Merry, sitting back on the pillows and running his fingers through Pippin’s hair, sent a look of piercing gratitude at Gandalf, and the wizard winked and carried on. “It was so cold, in fact, that the snow turned blue and the geese flew backward, and so it was that I, and old Bullroarer—though I called him Bandobras, of course—got turned around near Woody End and thus found ourselves, when dusk fell, alone and stranded as the temperature began to fall and the Wolves to close in.”

The tale rambled on—there were fish who swan south for the winter, and there was a magical mirror which Gandalf used the next morning, first to focus the sun and start a fire to warm them both, and then to blind the Wolves so that Bandobras could set about them with his fearsome golf clubs—and Pippin’s breathing steadied and smoothed until he was deeply asleep, a heavy weight on Merry’s arm and shoulder.

“How does our lad?” asked Gimli after the tale ended, and an appropriate time of silent, thoughtful pipe-smoking had taken place.

Merry craned his neck to see Pippin’s face and make sure he was solidly unconscious. “Well—amazingly well,” he added. “Strider thinks the Ent-draught may have affected us and made us, well, stronger, somehow—quicker to heal.”

“Ha!” said Gandalf, a bit too loudly; he subsided at Merry’s glare, only smiling broadly. “I knew there was something,” he said. “The Ent-draught, yes—how often did you and Pippin drink of it?”

“I don’t rightly know,” Merry admitted quietly. “We were with Treebeard and Quickbeam for three or four days, but I remember…” his voice trailed off.

“What do you remember?” asked Legolas, soft, eyes alight at hearing more of the Ents.

“Treebeard said to us, ‘I can give you a drink that will keep you green and growing for a long, long while.’ And the Ent-draught tasted of, well, I don’t know—water, but water like none I’ve had before or since—it filled us up, like, with only a bowlful, full to the tops of our heads with wholeness and health.” Merry blinked, and seemed to come back to the soft golden light of the tent and his companions. “And we drank it many times, over the three or four days, so perhaps Aragorn is right, and it’s that which makes the difference, now.”

“You’re taller,” Gimli said. “I noticed when I saw you—you’re almost as tall as I am, my friend.”

Merry smiled a little. “Yes, Strider pointed it out, and since then my trousers have all felt wrong,” he admitted. “Too short—and my sleeves, too.” He held out one arm and they all laughed, quietly, as they saw how his sleeve left his wrist gapingly bare.

“So, Pippin is doing well—healing quickly. But he had a bit of fever tonight, and I think the healer was worried, though she didn’t say it.” Merry laid his head sideways, onto Pippin’s curls. “But we shall get through it.”

“We shall,” said Gandalf. “As I’ve said before, he—and all hobbits—have a great store of endurance. You have as well the healing hands of the king, and as many good wishes as there are in all of Middle Earth.”

“Thank you,” Merry murmured.

“Let’s leave them be,” Legolas said. “Pippin needs his sleep, and I suspect Merry is weary as well.”

They left, each pressing Merry’s hand or touching Pippin’s hair gently before slipping out into the night. Merry sighed and slid down, pulling his arm cautiously from beneath Pippin’s head. His cousin felt warm beside him, but not overly hot, and Merry took satisfaction from this as he pulled the blankets higher and pushed away his anxiety for the comfort of sleep.


	6. Days Six through Eight

30 March

The next day was much like the one before; Pippin was strong enough to use the chamber pot, but still so weak that he slept through most of the day, waking for meals or to talk every hour or two. His fever continued stubbornly, and Ancalime shook her head over it, repacking and dressing his arm twice more as the day continued.

Strider visited them and he, too, looked at Pippin’s arm. He drew Ancalime aside and murmured with her, and the next time the dressing was changed, the herbs were different. 

Legolas and Gimli spent much of their time in the tent, speaking quietly with Merry or simply sitting in silence; Legolas sang sometimes, long, quiet songs in Elvish, and when he did Pippin seemed to lie more easily, whether asleep or awake.

Toward the evening Pippin’s fever rose, and Merry, coming back from a trip to the privies, saw his face turned away on the pillow as Ancalime dressed and wrapped his wound for the night. Pippin’s eyes were closed and cheeks flushed; Merry saw a tear leaking from his closed eye and looked sharply at Ancalime’s work. The wound looked worse—deep red where the herbs were packed into it, and there were lines of pink radiating from his wrist up nearly to his elbow.

Merry came to the empty side of the bed and wiped the tears from Pippin’s cheek. “Almost done,” he said, placing his forehead against Pippin’s; his skin was hot and dry. Pippin had opened his eyes at Merry’s touch, and now he nodded, biting his lip.

“There,” said Ancalime, and she bound his arm up again. “Finished and I shan’t bother you again till morning. Except—” she turned to the table of medicines— “that you must swallow two draughts. Then you may sleep.”

Pippin didn’t argue—a bad sign, Merry thought—but swallowed his doses docilely and then laid his head back again. 

“Do you want something to eat?” Merry asked, but Pippin shook his head, his eyes drooping closed. 

“No, m’just tired,” he murmured. “Tell me a story?”

Merry kissed his head. “Let me change into my night-shirt,” he said, and did so as Ancalime turned her back politely; thus changed, he climbed up into the bed again and lay beside Pippin, holding his hand gently. “Now, this is the tale of the Nose Tree,” he began, and Pippin fell asleep before he’d gotten to the part about the Thain’s greedy daughter and her theft of the magic pouch of coins.

*

1 April

The same as Day Six, only Pippin’s wound looked decidedly worse, and his fever was decidedly higher.

*

   
2 April

The same as Day Seven, but worse.


	7. Day Nine

3 April

Day Nine (3 April)

The same as Day Eight, but worse. 

By late afternoon, Pippin was too weak to use the chamber pot; he closed his eyes and turned his head away as Merry and Ancalime tended to his body’s needs. His eyes were fever bright under heavy lids when he was awake; he spoke little, but swallowed his medicine uncomplainingly. When evening came he hardly ate before falling asleep again, tossing and turning in his sleep, only to come awake with a gasp when his wounded arm touched the covers. 

Aragorn came in soon after, summoned, Merry thought, by Ancalime. The king spoke gently to Pippin as he delicately unwrapped his arm. When it was uncovered, Merry sucked in a breath; it looked terrible, swollen and dark, the stitches above the scabbed over end of the wound straining against the swelling. Pippin’s eyes were closed, but Merry knew he was awake.

“Pippin,” Strider said, and Pippin opened his eyes. “I’m going to open the wound and drain the sickness out of it,” the king said. “It’s going to hurt—it’s going to hurt terribly. I’m going to give you poppy to help with the pain, first, but even so, I’m going to ask Merry to hold you when I open the wound. Do you understand?”

Pippin nodded, and when Aragorn gave him the draught, he swallowed it without complaint or even a grimace. Aragorn sat beside them for a few minutes, letting the dose work, and when Pippin’s eyelids began to sag, he nodded to Merry and to Ancalime.

Merry lay down beside and half atop Pippin, one leg thrown across Pippin’s legs beneath the covers, arms tight around his body. 

Aragorn murmured to Ancalime and poured a bit of brandy over his blade. Merry couldn’t bear to watch, and so he closed his eyes tightly and pressed his head against Pippin’s chest. He felt Pippin’s galvanic twitch then, heard the hoarse sound he made and then the gasp, and the short, harsh keen as Aragorn and Ancalime cut into the wound and pressed the pus and blood from it, working their hands down his arm, pushing the wound sickness out by main force.

Pippin heaved under him but Merry didn’t move, only gritted his teeth and held him tight, feeling the tears leak down his face and his cousin’s hot skin burning through the layers of clothing and quilt.

It was over at last and Pippin’s whole body went loose and lax. Merry lifted his head, hoping that Pippin had fainted, and saw that Strider had already bound Pippin’s wrist, and Ancalime was carrying away the stained cloths with which they had cleaned out the wound. 

“That was—awful,” Merry said, sitting up and looking at Pippin. His eyes were closed, breathing fast and shallow still, but Merry knew he was awake. “Poor Pip,” Merry said, and held his uninjured hand. “It’s over now, though.”

“I think it helped,” Strider said, tying the bandage and then reaching up to push Pippin’s damp curls from his forehead. “You were valiant,” he added.

Pippin opened his eyes. “I’d rather not be valiant again,” he whispered, and Merry smiled, feeling his tears well up again. 

“Indeed,” Aragorn replied. He turned aside, straightening the pouches and jars on the table. “You’ll sleep well tonight, Peregrin, with the poppy we gave you, and I’ll be back in the morning to check on you. If you need anything in the night, Ancalime and Merry will both be here with you.”

“Poor Ancalime and Merry,” Pippin murmured, but he was already falling asleep. Merry stroked his hand and nodded at Strider, mouthing thank you as the high king nodded back and turned to go.


	8. Days Ten through Fourteen

4 April

Pippin’s fever broke in the night; Merry woke up beside him to feel the bedclothes damp with Pippin’s sweat, and he struggled out of bed to wake Ancalime. She lifted Pippin up as Merry stripped the sheets and replaced them, then helped Merry change Pippin’s night-shirt for a clean and dry one. Pippin was half-awake and complaining for most of the operation, and Merry felt nothing but relief at his cousin’s mumbled grousing. 

“There, back to sleep with you,” Merry said, pulling the covers up, and in the morning when the king returned, Pippin’s fever was low and he was complaining of hunger. 

“Sure sign of a hobbit on the mend,” Aragorn said, smiling, and Merry felt faint with relief—and hunger himself—and went to fetch their breakfasts with a lighter heart.

*

   
5 April

Pippin’s fever was gone, and the wound on his arm, as if offended by its rebellion against the Ent-draught, began to heal rapidly. Ancalime belatedly removed the stitches—a procedure both horrifying and fascinating, Merry and Pippin agreed, staring as the small black threads were—zip—pulled from Pippin’s skin, leaving behind faint marks which faded almost immediately, and a line of tender pink scarring from bicep to wrist. The lower end of the wound, where the infection had set in, was scabbed over and no longer needed a dressing.

Pippin’s temper, as if to counterbalance his health, began to fray. He was by turns restless, cranky, and irritable; it seemed as though he had suddenly noticed how confined he was, and he fretted and fussed so that Merry was hard put to keep his own temper. He remembered Ancalime’s words from that first day with Pippin, though, and set himself to distract and entertain his cousin. They played innumerable games of checkers and chess with the small set Legolas brought them, and made up new verses to all the drinking songs they could think of—many, it turned out. Halfway through the afternoon, though, Pippin fell asleep abruptly in the middle of an argument about which was the best cricket team in the Westfarthing, and Merry stopped rambling about the home team of _The Seven Drakes_ inn and looked at him with concern, turning then with raised eyebrows to Ancalime.

She smiled and came to rest a hand on Pippin’s cheek and forehead. “He’s still easily tired,” she said. “There’s no fever.” Merry sighed with relief and climbed off the bed, shoulders sagging.

“He’s going to keep me hopping, isn’t he?” Merry said, and she nodded, eyes twinkling.

“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Master Meriadoc, I think you should take a long break,” she said. “Go and find your friends, and I will sit with Pippin for the rest of the afternoon. You need some sunshine, and—forgive me—you’ll be a better caretaker for your cousin if you care for yourself as well.”

Merry looked longingly at the bright Spring sunlight outside the open tent flap, then at Pippin’s sleeping face—still too thin but with the returning glow of health and healing. “I don’t know if I should,” he said. “What if he wakes as cranky as he has been?”

Ancalime gave a genteel snort. “There’s naught an irritable patient can say or do that I haven’t dealt with,” she said. “Go on, get some tea and don’t come back until dinner time.”

Merry nodded at last and—on impulse—took the healer’s work-roughened hand and bowed over it. “I will take your advice, as it’s been so good over these past days,” he said, and slid out the door as she gave a startled laugh.

The sun was blinding, and Merry stood where he was for a moment, blinking and letting his eyes adjust. He began to wander the rows of tents, nodding when folk nodded at him, and came at last to the hospital tent. He ducked into the dim, quiet space and walked the rows of cots until he saw a familiar Man, sitting up and mending a broken strap. 

“I beg your pardon, but are you Beregond of the City Guard?” Merry asked.

“I was, but I’m now Beregond of Faramir’s Guard,” the man said, smiling. “And you must be the _perian_ of whom Sir Peregrin spoke, his… cousin?”

“I am, Meriadoc Brandybuck, son of Saradoc, son of Rorimac, at your service.”

“Beregond son of Baranor, at yours and your kin.” The Man looked earnestly at Merry. “Truly, for I owe much to your cousin Peregrin—he saved my Lord Faramir in the city, and then me, as we fought on the Morannon. How fares he?”

Merry perched on a high stool beside Beregond’s bed and told him of Pippin’s injuries and recovery, not speaking of the Ent-draught—that tale was perhaps too long—but reassuring Beregond that Pippin would be hale again soon, and thanking him for telling Gimli where he’d last seen Pippin fighting. “If you hadn’t done that I doubt he would live now,” Merry said, “so any debt you might owe has been repaid, doubly.”

Beregond shook his head, but he smiled. Merry took his leave and went out wandering again, making his way by memory to the High King’s tents. He found the small white tent where Frodo and Sam lay, and Gandalf seated beside them, smoking quietly.

“Well met, young Merry,” Gandalf said as he came into the tent. “How do you do this fine afternoon?”

Merry looked first into Frodo’s sleeping face, then Sam’s; he came back to look at Frodo again and answered. “I am well—finally, perhaps.” He smiled without looking away from Frodo. “Pippin is much improved. Napping now, now that he’s taken all his ill-temper and impatience out on his long-suffering cousin.”

Gandalf smiled at that, and Merry hopped up to sit on Frodo’s cot, swinging his legs and looking at last at Gandalf’s care-worn face, peaceful as Merry had never seen it, lit from within. “You bring welcome news,” the wizard said. “For in three days all the camp will gather to honor Frodo and Sam, and you and Pippin will serve Éomer and Aragorn at the feast, and be reunited at last with your friends.”

Merry’s eyes filled with tears as he gently took Frodo’s wrapped hand. “And so they’ll be awake,” he said wonderingly, “and Pippin well and whole enough to serve, and me—oh!” he said, and looked at Gandalf. “Wherever shall I find trousers and shirts to fit Pip and me?”

And Gandalf laughed, and although it did not wake the sleeping hobbits, they smiled in their dreams, and Merry smiled, too.

*

8 April

_But when… wine was brought there came in two esquires to serve the kings; or so they seemed to be: one was clad in the silver and sable of the Guards of Minas Tirith, and the other in white and green. But Sam wondered what such young boys were doing in an army of mighty men. Then suddenly as they drew near and he could see them plainly, he exclaimed: ‘Why, look Mr. Frodo! Look here! Well, if it isn’t Pippin. Mr. Peregrin Took I should say, and Mr. Merry! How they have grown! Bless me! But I can see there’s more tales to tell than ours.’ ‘There are indeed,’ said Pippin turning towards him. ‘And we’ll begin telling them, as soon as this feast is ended. In the meantime you can try Gandalf._

_He’s not so close as he used to be, though he laughs now more than he talks. For the present Merry and I are busy. We are knights of the City and of the Mark, as I hope you observe.’ _

_… At last the glad day ended; and when the Sun was gone and the round Moon rode slowly above the mists of Anduin and flickered through the fluttering leaves, Frodo and Sam sat under the whispering trees amid the fragrance of fair Ithilien; and they talked deep into the night with Merry and Pippin and Gandalf, and after a while Legolas and Gimli joined them._

(J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Return of the King_, Book Six: “The Field of Cormallen.”)


End file.
